The Kingdom Within
by apeacockpersian
Summary: Denerim's elven alienage flourishes under the new bann Albine Tabris, as her husband Zevran Arainai becomes a master of the House of Crows. But Alistair's new queen Cada Cousland stands to unravel it all, and unmask the criminal underworld beneath them.
1. Prologue

**THE KINGDOM WITHIN**

**Prologue**

In the end, the Warden triumphed. She had driven a sword through the neck of the archdemon, satisfied with its wails and shrieks as the blade seared through the armored scales of the beast's flesh and into the spongy organs of its throat. The tower rumbled, a tower of light enveloping her as she struggled to free herself from the blade after it had plunged through the monster. After a momentary struggle, a shock wave rippled across the roof of Fort Drakon, launching the panting rogue across the rooftop. A deafening explosion sang in her ears, as below her, darkspawn were scurrying out of the city like insects from a flaming anthill.

Her ankle had been shattered in the fray and she bled from numberless wounds, but she refused to wait for her companions to rescue her. Instead, she clamored to the edge of the rooftop, biting back agonized screams and snatching onto the stone wall overlooking the city of Denerim. She stared down into the fiery gloom that had enveloped the city beneath. It had been shredded, brick by brick, cornerstone by cornerstone. The flames that had erupted throughout the city were beginning to dissipate, but the smoke left in the wake of the holocaust threatened to darken the morning light on the horizon. The royal palace remained, but its gardens were decimated, and the market at the city's heart was leveled. The elven alienage had been gutted by the darkspawn, the walls that had caged the elves for as long as she remembered now scorched to the ground.

Albine Tabris had lived all of her life imprisoned inside those walls. It was behind them that her mother was buried, slaughtered by humans, where her cousin was beaten, raped, and where she was captured by Vaughn and his men to serve his pleasures. It was inside those walls that she had been conscripted into the Grey Wardens, forcing her to serve the cause of the race that had subjugated, abused, tormented and incarcerated her all the days of her life. She vowed that there would never be walls again. She vowed that the humans would regret tyrannizing the elven people.

Her head began to spin wildly. She clutched her side and felt that the tunic beneath the leather plates of her armor had grown damp with blood. Albine's hands slipped from the wall, and she crumpled to the ground. Her head thumped off the stone beneath her, and the last sight to grace her eyes was the chocolate leather of Zevran's boots.

The final thought to cross her mind was simply an expectation of nothing but blackness, oblivion. The world went quiet and dark, yet a light remained. Albine hesitated to part her eyes, anticipating that she wouldn't, at least not immediately. But when she realized that she could, she found herself lying in a field, her brow throbbing.

"Albine! Albine, get up!"

Alistair's voice rang in her ears. She scurried to her feet, her wounds presumably healed. The pain was certainly absent. The templar raced past her, yelling, "_Albine!_"

He leapt in front of her, barely missing an arrow that soared just over his shoulder. Albine stammered, "Where- where are we?"

"_Can't you see?_" he shouted as he swung his sword at a lurching enemy. The man toppled over, dead. Alistair growled, "You've been slipping in and out of consciousness ever since your skull got pummeled by that shield! You really don't get it? Ah, _Maker's breath_, we were traveling back to Redcliffe on the main road, when-"

He leapt out of the way of another attack, ducking as he thrust his blade upwards into the neck of a female mage. She grasped her bleeding throat helplessly, gurgling as she collapsed next to her fallen comrade. Alistair did not finish his previous sentence. He jumped back into the fray, as Albine hurriedly gathered whatever senses she had that remained. She drew the two daggers strapped to her back and stepped out onto the middle of the battlefield. Deflecting an arrow with one blade, she lunged at the enemy in front of her. She tumbled through the grass, shirking away from the man's swords as she punched him in the jaw and swept her dagger through his shoulder and into his chest.

As he writhed in the grass Albine stood, examining the thinning number of enemies on the battlefield. She must have been incapacitated for the duration of the fight, she presumed, and her allies had already vanquished the majority of the enemy force. Morrigan lay limp on the hillside, surrounded by fallen archers that she had no doubt incinerated with her spells. On the opposite side of the small valley, Alistair had freshly fallen. Kneeling over his corpse, a man armed with twin blades lifted the fallen templar's chin with one of his swords. It was obvious that Alistair had dealt him an immense amount of damage, but he had triumphed – albeit narrowly – and now stood as the only remaining combatant on the battlefield. Albine threatened, "Lay your sword on him again and you will find mine through your heart."

He responded with a ferocious grin. As he swaggered towards her, Albine's lungs tightened and her breathing grew constricted. An overwhelming feeling of déjà vu washed over her, and she pressed her eyelids to clear the thoughts from her mind.

"Such empty threats," he snarled, "From such a fragile creature."

Albine opened her eyes and wordlessly bounded towards him. She assailed him with both of her daggers at once. He caught her wrist with one of his swords, but she continued to attack him despite the injury. She dug her daggers into his sides, sending him reeling with pain.

"Remark on my fragility again and I will cut your tongue from your mouth to string as a token on my belt," she swore as she snatched at the neckline of his armor.

Before he could turn away from her, she struck at him again. The point of her knife dipped between the plates of leather armor clinging to his chest. She was exhausted, panting greedily for air, her head spinning. The weapon thumped against chainmail beneath, and as the assailant stepped away, the Warden lurched at the attacker and plunged her blade wildly into his shoulder. The mail under her enemy's pauldron shrieked as the knife penetrated it, diving into the muscle beneath. Already soaked in his blood, and dripping with no small amount of her own, the Warden braced for him to kick her in the stomach, to throw a fist at her cheek and repel her attacks. She clenched her knife with both of her hands. Her foe dropped his swords. They fell with a clatter to the ground. He was surrendering.

As he plummeted to the earth below, the Warden sunk onto her knees and straddled his waist, her hands still clasping the knife in his chest. Her gloves were now awash with his blood, and her fingers slipped on the hilt of her weapon. Still she clung to it, eyes wide, staring down into the face of her enemy. Her knees clamped around his torso, damp from the leaking wound she had torn in his side. The Warden must have cut deeper into his flesh than she thought, she realized as his breath grew raspy. His lungs rattled when he breathed. She clung to the knife in his shoulder still with both her hands.

Somehow, he found the energy to lift his arm from the ground. He wrapped a hand around hers, suggesting that she end his life with her blade. But just before she pulled the knife out of him to finish the kill, she glanced at his face. It was Zevran. She was killing Zevran.

"What… why have I done this? Don't go, please, please stay with me," she pleaded frantically, "Please, please don't give up… don't leave me. Don't go, don't go."

"This was _your_ undoing!" he hoarsely coughed, "How can you live, _Albine_, knowing that the scars that remain were left by your blade, and that _no apology_, no act of love, or of compassion,will erase them?!"

Albine struggled to pull the knife from his body, but though she pulled with all her strength, it would not dislodge from him. She cried out; she grabbed the knife beneath its hilt and tugged, splitting open her glove. Her hands were so bloodied that they began to slip even more off the blade's surface, and her efforts became doubly useless. She shrieked, "_It was you who attacked me! This was not of my undoing!_"

"It matters not, _my dear_," he jeered, "I shall not perish. You will grant me mercy, Albine, and I will live beside you for all the days of my life. And that is the horror, _isn't it_? You will live forever knowing that you have felt what it is to run the love of your life through on your blade, to feel his blood surge between your fingers, knowing you were better to have killed him to spare yourself the pain-"

"No, no you-"

"_You_ are destined for greatness, Albine Tabris. You will raise your people from subjugation, and forever shall be known as an uncompromising agent of freedom. You will have riches, power, but you will live for eternity in the shadow of the knowledge that you caused me the greatest misery."

"_Stop!_" Albine screamed, "Stop! _Stop!_"

"Stop? Even when you wake, the nightmare continues. There is no end to this, Albine."

Albine cried out, waking from her slumber. She rolled out of the bed she was lying in, feeling the sting of bandaged wounds and the pangs of reality once more. _It was a dream_. But that realization brought her no solace. Despite the split on her leg and the gauze across her arm she stumbled across the room, crying out in agony as her ankle seared with pain as she walked. She had no idea where she was, but the first rays of early dawn on the horizon outside shed enough light in the room to illuminate her path. She noticed a chair by the window and limped over to it. Drawing the taupe- colored silk robe covering her body closer to her chest, she stared out the window, devoid of tears. A fever racked her body. She should have wept, curled into her chair helplessly. Instead, she merely stared emptily past her daggers and jewelry situated on the sill and out of the window, onto the vast, broken city of Denerim.

--

Zevran was roused by the sound of Albine's ragged wails of pain and the noise of her leg splint rapping on the wooden floors. For two days he had been feigning sleep, listening for any noise coming from her room located the opposite side of the infirmary. The first night and the following day, he had been forbidden from seeing her. She was too grievously injured. Now, however, she was awake. As thrilled as he was to see her again, it was dread that something horrible had happened to cause her pain that outweighed his excited. He instantly dove out of bed, seized with fear, and dashed into her room.

He was greeted with a less dramatic scene than he expected. Albine was seated at the chair in front of the window, holding a vermeil knife flat in her lap. Zevran approached her slowly, almost reverently, and leaned over her chair, asking, "Are you alright?"

Albine remained silent. Zevran kneeled at the ground beside her, murmuring, "I… heard you get out of bed. Two days have passed since we killed the archdemon. Alistair and I carried you off the rooftop and brought you to the infirmary for soldiers and refugees here at the palace. You… you have been fevered and comatose ever since."

She wrapped her hand around the hilt of the blade, staring blankly, "This knife is marvelously crafted."

Figuring that she was thinking deliriously from the fever, Zevran merely listened to her words. She observed feebly, "This is the craftsmanship of the elven people. The blade itself curves downward at two specific locations. It is delicately serrated on both edges. Why would anyone craft such a weapon? Because it is specifically designed to leave a distinctive wound on its victims, branding them with a scar so undeniable, that those who survive its attack will be perpetually marked by it… in the instance that the wielder of the knife ever find the victim again, and opt to slaughter him."

Zevran realized that her words were tainted with no hallucinations. He wiped a tress of ash blonde hair from her swan-white neck, and kissed her cheek just in front of her ear. He murmured, "Let me take you back to bed, my love. I will stay with you tonight."

"Zev?"

Her voice was drained.

"Would you please put my earring on?" She uttered, frailly lifting her hand to point at the sill. She needn't have directed him to any earring; he knew she asked for the one he had given her, as a promise of marriage. Zevran took the knife from her, replacing it before the window as he collected the earring and fastened it to one of her pointed ears. He planted a kiss on her forehead, and charily gathered her in his arms. He laid her in bed, drawing the blankets securely around her, before crawling under the sheets next to her.

The assassin prayed to whatever god would listen that he wouldn't be the cause of her nightmares.

--

Mid-morning sun poured past the lacey curtains, greeting Alistair's eyes with a happy harshness. He squinted, groaned, and sat up in bed. He was immediately swarmed by his servants, who cheerily asked him what breakfast he desired and what color velvet he preferred to wear and how many times a day he bathed. Groggily sputtering vague responses to all of them so that they scattered off to do his bidding, Alistair rolled out from under the blankets and hit the floor beneath the bed with a thump.

"Your majesty! Are you injured?"

"I'm, ugh, fine," he grumbled, rubbing his eyes, "Just rolled off the wrong side of the bed, you know. That would be _precisely_ my luck."

"Shall I fetch the nurse, your majesty?"

"Uhm. No. No, that's not necessary. And you don't need to call me that."

"Yes, yo- my lord."

"Or that. Really, I'm sure it's the right thing to do in public, but there's no need."

Alistair sighed, crossing the room to the washbasin situated on the vanity. He sank down into the seat in front of it, dipping the dry cloth on the tabletop into the water. He pressed the cold, damp rag on his face and his eyes, bringing at least some clarity to his senses. Setting the towel back on the vanity, he said, "Today we are to present the heroes of Ferelden to Denerim. I'm sure you've already sent word to the royal guards to secure the palace in the event of an attack or assassins?"

"Yes, Master Theirin."

"_Master Theirin_," he chuckled, "Now _that_ I like quite a deal."

"You humble me, Master Theirin."

"What can I say? I try, I try. Mostly I fail. Utterly. Oh, Maker, that was embarrassing. Hmm. Now before I say anything else that renders me an utter fool, let's see, what would a king do to prepare for such a, eh, a courtly event? Get dressed?"

"May I suggest donning your armor?"

"Oh, that's _good_. And that would make boatloads of sense for a war hero to be wearing armor. Not trying to give myself any unwarranted self-importance or anything, but after living in a grimy camp and chasing monsters for weeks and months on end, well, I don't think it's unreasonable. Right?"

The manservant's poised expression cracked with a grin, "You are absolutely correct, Master Theirin. I shall have someone fetch your armor."

"Excellent," Alistair exclaimed, "And while the armor is being gathered, I shall wake our honored guest."

"Miss… _Tabris_ is already prepared, if that is the guest to whom you refer," the servant said with a twang of bitterness in his voice.

"No, you don't understand, she was wounded and feeling ill. I need to go visit her before the celebration and make sure that she's well." Alistair replied.

"She is perfectly well, I assure you," he gritted his teeth. Alistair frowned.

"I just need to see her with my own eyes," the templar responded, and took the robe from the servant's hands. He tied it over his breeches, slipping into the shoes at the door as he added, "As a fellow Warden, it is my duty to ensure her safety."

"You do not understand, Master Theirin," the servant glared.

"W-what is there not to understand?" Alistair cocked his head.

"You are king, Master Theirin. Kings do not keep company with elves."

"I- ah, oh. You mean they just employ them as slaves and kitchen hands. How about I go see her so she can polish my shoes, then? Would that be a better excuse?" Alistair replied sarcastically. But there was no sign of cynicism or irony etched on the servant's face. His lips were pursed in as serious a fashion as ever.

"It is best that you ready yourself for the celebrations, Master Theirin, and act the part of the socially liberating monarch once the festivities have begun," the servant insisted.

"You're… you're serious, aren't you?" Alistair uttered.

"This is how a king acts, Master," the servant said, "If the elves are treated like humans, they will expect rights that the king should not be willing to cede to them. They will rise to power, and threaten the monarchy."

"And who was it that told you this? Loghain?" Alistair snapped.

The servant sighed, shaking his head, "It is common knowledge of the court, Master Theirin, and it is how King Cailan would have responded."

Alistair bit the inside of his lip, weighing those words. How long would he rule in Cailan's shadow? How long would it take to revolutionize the minds of the court, the people, to accept things that he took for granted, like the decent treatment of non-human people- heroes, even, he thought sourly. It seemed too early for revolution. He stormed off to the window, sulking, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Why hasn't my armor arrived yet?" He barked, "_Bring it to me!_"

"I will see to it myself, Master Theirin."

Alistair heard the servant's footsteps tramping down the hall. When he was left entirely alone, he grasped his forehead, murmuring, "_Maker, what have you done to me?_"

--

"A-ha! Bested again! You _really_ should have anticipated it this time, Clarene. " Cada Cousland triumphantly crossed hers arms over her chest and smiled broadly, "I believe it is time you admit that I am a far better player at cards than you think."

"I admit nothing! Luck is no substitute for strategy."

"Not going to boost my ego, are you?" Cada smirked, "Isn't that what handmaidens are for?"

"Handmaidens, yes. Shield maidens, _no_," Clarene chuckled in her Orlesian accent, spinning a thread of her fiery red curls in her finger, "And I _still_ worry that debuting you at the court of this new king dressed in full battle regalia is an exceedingly poor idea. I am still of the mind that those velvet gowns we bought in Val Royeaux would be more appropriate."

Cada stood from her seat, shaking her head of loose, chocolaty tresses across the sunkissed blush of her skin as she paced the room, "I'm not debuting at the court, though, not as a lady in waiting, any how. I'm debuting with the new Wardens."

"The _Orlesian _Wardens," Clarene wagged her finger, "Meaning that proper _Orlesian _gowns are quite suitable."

"Ah, quit reminding me of Orlais, lest I miss it too much," Cada plopped on the edge of the bed, fingering one of the cards still in her hand. When her family had been attacked by Arl Howe, her father Teryn Bryce ordered her to escape Highever and flee to Orlais to meet with family. When she arrived at the location he told her, however, it was not the estate of her relatives but a Grey Warden fortress. The Wardens had been expecting her in the instance of danger. Awaiting her there was Clarene Avaigne, a Warden Commander, who took her under her wing and trained her as a new recruit. Cada survived the Joining, surviving to battle the darkspawn hoard in the far reaches of Orlais.

She had fled Ferelden as a callow warrior, her large, honey-hazel colored eyes awash with visions of the innocence of the world. She returned now as a hardened slayer of monsters and smiter of demons, whose eyes- no less radiant- closed their windows to the world. She was cautious, idealistic but tempered in her romanticism of things.

Now Arl Howe was dead and the archdemon was defeated. Ferelden was safe for Cada once more- and it needed new Grey Wardens. Though she had predicted to arrive in time to assist the Wardens in the final battle against the darkspawn, she arrived late, on the eve of the crowning of the new king, Alistair. Alongside the sparse number of other Wardens who had traveled from outside Ferelden to stop the archdemon, Cada was invited to court for the occasion- the court of her home country, where now, after what seemed an eternity, she could truly feel home again.

Of all things, her heart panged to see her older brother again. He was all the family she had left, and when Clarene reported that he had been invited to the palace to see the crowning of the new king as well, Cada's eyes swelled with tears. She missed him terribly.

"Do you think he'll recognize me?" Cada mused. Clarene shrugged, collecting the cards off the table. She pushed her chair in and ambled towards Cada, plucking the cards from her hand.

"Fergus? If he doesn't, it will be for the better," she answered, "You are no longer the errant nobleman's daughter that arrived at the doorstep of the fortress in Orlais, and I should hope you have returned to your country looking changed, as you are."

"Will you ever go back to the fortress? To Orlais?" Cada asked.

"That is not my decision. My superior officer sent me to Ferelden to manage operations at the new stronghold in Amaranthine, and I am obliged to remain there as he wills me to. But if I am granted the opportunity to return, I suppose I might," Clarene decided, "In truth, I am bitter that Orlais did not come to the aid of Ferelden, and as of this moment I am glad to have left my nation for its mistakes against this one."

Cada sprawled out across the sheets, remarking, "I can't find it in my heart to blame Orlais. They did not see how badly Ferelden suffered firsthand at the claws of the darkspawn."

Clarene frowned, "Orlais has eyes all across Thedas, as Ferelden no doubt has eyes in Antiva and Antiva in Orlais. The Orlesians were certainly _painfully_ aware of the threat to Ferelden, Cada. It makes the fact that they did not act upon their awareness even more dreadful."

Cada tugged her wild tresses from the ribbon securing them at the back of her neck, so that they winded like streams of coffee on the tan palette of the sheets. She mourned, "I am not naive. And yet somehow that makes me no less disappointed in the ignorance and spitefulness that humans treat each other with in their darkest hours, when they are in the worst need of aid."

"Such treatment is hardly exclusive to humans, Cada. If you need further verification of the power of ignorance, look to the treatment of the elven people."

"But we have given them civilization."

"We have given them _slavery_," Clarene corrected, "And the dwarves? We have allowed them to wither away, without a care to the persistence of their culture. Every day the darkspawn consume them, and only the Wardens give a damn. The rest of Ferelden turns its eye from their plight. Everywhere in Thedas, humans have decimated the cultures of the world."

"And are we to release them from our governance entirely, oust them from our cities and our kingdoms?" Cada murmured as she closed her eyes, envisioning the servant elves who worked in her kitchens as a child, who had a perpetual expression of terror in their eyes when greeted with the sight of their human master. She firmly decided, "The oppression of the elves and dwarves was not the fault of my generation; it is not in my power to rightly accept the blame for it. We can move only forward. And as we have erased their cultures, we must offer them ours. We must do the best we can to support them, to give them work in our households, in our butcheries, in our shop fronts. Wherever we can offer them work, it is better to offer it at all than see them starved in the wilds somewhere, trying to recover a society, a world long lost to even the oldest of their peoples."

"I mention the elves because there is a resistance movement gaining momentum in the elven alienage of Denerim, and I wonder what a woman of such compassion as yourself would feel of it," Clarene replied soberly. Cada proper herself up on the pillows, narrowly opening her eyes.

"Resistance?"

"Two Grey Wardens survived Ostagar," Clarene narrated as she wandered the chamber, her heeled boots tapping the wooden surface of the floorboards beneath, "One was Alistair Theirin, who shall be crowned king tomorrow. The other was an elf named Albine Tabris. Before her Joining, she and a handful of elven women were captured and imprisoned in the estate of Bann Vaughan, the son of the Arl of Denerim. Some had been brutally beaten and raped. Albine broke free, and slaughtered the guards and the Bann himself to free the women."

"I would expect no less from such a despicable creature as Bann Vaughan, although I cannot imagine that the elves were blameless, either" Cada scowled, "How did you hear of such tales?"

"Word is spreading fast through the ranks of the Wardens," Clarene said, "It was Albine who delivered the blow that killed the archdemon, and it was she that instated Alistair on the throne."

"An _elf_? Dabbling in the politics of humans? Putting _our_ king on the throne?" Cada asked. Clarene's lips remained pressed in a cold, fierce line. She stopped pacing, and stretched her hands across the footboard of the bed.

"Like Cailan, whose power rested in Anora, Alistair is simply another puppet of craftier forces behind the glittering façade of the monarchy as the common people see it," Clarene said.

"It is not the puppetry that shocks me," Cada exclaimed, "It is the fact that such… such manipulation could ever come from an _elf_. The very race we subjugated… I , I cannot believe Alistair, a Grey Warden, would ever cede control of his kingdom to anyone but _himself_."

"The kingdom as you see it, Cada Cousland, is a veneer" she murmured, "It is the kingdom within that you would do well to dread."

Clarene traversed the room, drawing aside the curtains with her hand. A stream of radiant morning light flooded the room, and Cada squinted when the other Warden opened them in their entirety.

"I shall retire to my quarters to prepare for the coronation," she said, "You would do well to do the same."

--

Beams of light poured through the lofty windows and cast an exquisite, golden light upon the central hall of the palace. As Alistair entered, his polished, brassy armor glistened as richly as the color of caramel. The people standing before the dais all descended into a reverent bow, smiling broadly as he passed and ascended the stairs. He knelt before the Chantry mother, his ears ringing with the excited whispers of the crowd and swelling with the blessing that the priest uttered to him. _There is no turning back now_, he realized with a great sense of terror and thrill, _I am precisely where Albine put me… on the throne of Ferelden._

He stood, almost wobbling off the stairs, and faced the people beneath him. He was comforted by the sight of familiar faces: Wynne, with her warm, motherly smile, Sten, looming in the back of the hall with his signature, contemplative frown, Leliana, dressed in the colorful velvets of Orlais and grinning with the prospect of new tales to tell from her adventures. Immersed amongst the crowd in the middle of the hall, Alistair caught Zevran's dark-eyed, scrutinizing gaze. Standing next to him, wearing mint green silks as ethereal as the translucence of her skin and as pale as the flaxen hue of her hair, was Albine.

_The true hero of Ferelden_, Alistair figured.

After addressing the people, he invited her forward. She ambled out of the crowd, refusing to use a crutch like she should have. She limped slowly down the aisle between the crowd, and the people fell utterly silent. The uneven click of her steps on the stone sent eerie echoes through the chamber. As she climbed the stairs, she glimpsed back, her eyes wide with vigilance and her shoulder stiff with anxiousness. Despite encountering countless humans throughout her travels, she still felt distressed if not afraid in their presence. Because of it, Alistair felt vaguely guilty having expected her to be presented publicly as a hero to the people of Denerim.

"Is there a boon you would ask of Ferelden's king?" He boomed. She glanced at him fleetingly before anxiously looking to the throng, and then back at him, lowering her chin.

"I would ask that my people be treated fairly for once."

"Then how would you feel about being the new bann of the elven alienage?" He asked loudly enough for the people to hear. Amidst their disgruntled gasps and mutters, Albine hesitated to respond. Alistair whispered, "I would give the position to your father or your cousin, Shianni, if you did not feel comfortable."

"_No_," she firmly answered, "It…it is my burden to bear."

"An excellent choice," he grinned, again facing the people, "May I present you Albine Tabris, Bann of the elven alienage of Denerim. Have you any particular address to the people, ladyship?"

"Remember Bann Vaughan," Albine pronounced curtly.

Utter silence. Then a grim applause broke out.

"Have you anything else?" Alistair said.

"Yes. I would ask one more favor of you," Albine asked quietly, "Release Lady Anora into my keeping."

"So you can execute her?" He grumbled.

"She is of more worth alive than she is dead. Despite her increasingly notorious reputation, she is a shrewd politician, and I would welcome her as my advisor at court," Albine mouthed cautiously. She suggested more loudly, "I will be in need of the aid of such intelligent and worldly individuals as Lady Mac Tir in rebuilding and ruling the alienage. I also believe that releasing Lady Anora would be an exceptional sign of your great mercy and forgiveness, your Majesty, to Ferelden and all Thedas."

The people began to cheer again, and Alistair sighed.

"I… oh, Maker, yes, I grant your request. I will have Anora freed and brought to you," he announced, "Let it be known that the King of Ferelden keeps no friend of our former queen as his enemy, and that for her great love of the people, has released her."

Before the crowd's applause became deafening, he leaned closely towards Albine, and murmured, "I can't understand why an elf – particularly you, and no, don't go on about how that's an insult about how xenophobic you are because it totally _wasn't_ – would request the freedom of a woman like Anora, but you're better than I am at sorting out these diplomatic trifles, aren't you. Now for Andraste's sake, they're getting antsy. Best go outside and greet your adoring public. I'll stay here and keep an eye on Zevran."

"I do not think such a task shall be difficult," Albine replied gently, "Given how intent he shall be on begging you for… _assignments_."

"Well, the Anora situation is already solved," he grinned, "I jest! Jest! Now off with you. I don't want all of Ferelden bursting through those doors to see you."

"As you wish," she curtsied, stifle a grimace of pain as her ankle ached, "Your Majesty."

--

Anora quivered as she heard the metallic clanking of armor and swords ascend to her cell in the tower. Stripped of her royal finery and clad in nothing but pauper's rags, her pastel-painted face damp with scant tears, she felt none of the joy of her former subjects. Her death was imminent, she hoped. It was the only expectation she had for the end of a life that had seen her polished, shaped, arranged to be a queen, and now she was nothing, not even noble, blue-blooded, not anything. All she had known had been torn out from under her, and she felt as if she were falling into a black chasm to which there was no end, and surely no succor.

As the sound of the guards drew closer, she gazed one last time past the barred windows of her cell, assuming it was the end of her life. She could finally have solace in joining her father in whatever afterlife the Maker had prepared for her. The cheers and song of the people beneath her, celebrating the coronation of their new king, was drowned out by the cling of the key in the lock, as the soldiers opened her cell and entered her prison.

One announced, "By decree of King Alistair-"

"You need not proclaim my death sentence so formally," she responded coolly, "His Majesty knows that I prefer death to any fate suffered in this cell."

"His Highness has bade your release, ladyship," the guard corrected, "At the request of Bann Albine Tabris, who negotiated your freedom with the stipulation that you enter servitude in her court."

Anora nearly fainted. She grasped the edge of her bed pallet, her arms frozen still. She managed, "A-Albine Tabris? The elf? The Warden who saved… She has convinced Alistair to free me? I- I will go as a slave to no one. I would rather die. Tell his Majesty he may execute me before I am turned into the kitchen maid to an elf."

"As I understand it, my lady," the guard replied, "The Bann wishes you to become her counselor."

"Counselor…"

"We will escort you to the Bann when you are prepared to leave," he said, "Though I would not keep the Bann waiting."

"I… take me to her, if you must," Anora rose to her feet, "I am beholden to the will of my King, and to her Ladyship."

They bowed and departed the cell, expecting her to follow. Anora glanced one last time at the cell, wiping a fresh tear from her cheek before she descended down the staircase and back into the free world once more.

--

Author's Notes

I've never been more excited or satisfied with a first chapter of a fan fiction as I have this one, and I certainly hope you agree! Of course, I am always happy to receive your criticism. Let me know if you see any grammatical errors I missed in the editing process, or if you have any comments or questions regarding characters, plot or creative writing in general.

With love,

Julia

_apeacockpersian_

PS- The rating of this story may be increased to M with upcoming chapters.


	2. Chapter 1: Affiance

**THE KINGDOM WITHIN**

**Chapter 1: Affiance  
**

Alistair lifted his chin from the reports on his desk and beamed boyishly whenever he heard a rap on his door. He relinquished his quill, figuring it was Cada, and announced, "Come in."

The door rattled, and Alistair was disappointed to see that it was Bann Teagan. Well, not disappointed. Teagan was a good man, who often put up with Alistair's antics entering seedy taverns and cavorting with the common folk too often with a fatherly grin and a shake of his head. Alistair was happy to see him, although with the abject frown on his lips, Cada's cheerful company would have been preferable. Alistair feared that something huge was amiss. He could see it in Teagan's eyes.

That was the disappointment.

"Your Highness-"

"It's Alistair, remember?"

"Ah," Teagan afforded himself a small grin, "Alistair."

He soberly drifted across the room and extended a sealed scroll to Alistair. He took it warily, glancing at the parchment and the heraldic seal pressed into the wax binding the letter shut. Before he could slide his fingers under the seal to open the letter, Teagan suggested, "I would prefer to tell you the contents of the letter myself, if you wouldn't mind."

"No, no," Alistair replied, hastily shoving the scroll into the pile of documents scattered over his desk, "Please, tell me."

"I… have no way to lighten this news," Teagen warned, "But there is evidence of social unrest brewing in Denerim. It has reached an uncomfortable level as of late. Jobless men have rallied around the garrisons demanding work, women have taken to the markets protesting the shortages of food for their children. Homes are in shambles, and businesses lie vacant still."

"It is being taken care of."

"Is it?"

"I have given control of the reconstruction in the city to Bann Tabris," Alistair answered. Teagan sighed.

"That is what I fear, Alistair. She has invested no insignificant amount of the gold in our treasury to the alienage. Her district flourishes, while the rest of the city has received only the most basic repairs. Private homes are still wrecked, schools are still closed. Denerim remains intact, thank the Maker, but the humans now live in the constant shadow of the magnificence of the alienage."

"For once, the elves have it better than the humans," Alistair laughed under his breath. But Teagan's brow furrowed in fretful silence.

"I… would not wish ill upon any person, be they elf or human. But the elves are the minority, and the fact that their district in Denerim is the most lavishly rebuilt of all districts in the city strikes many people – humans – as favoritism towards what is now the elite few," Teagan explained, "I would not normally make a suggestion so reactionary, but I think that Albine has taken the liberation of her people beyond what the humans can bear, and I recommend you find some way for Albine to reimburse the city of Denerim for it."

"That's ridiculous!" Alistair exclaimed, "That sounds worse than slavery, expecting the elves, who we've treated so poorly for centuries, to repay us for something as trivial in the course of history as a decent place to live!"

"I wish I shared your idealism. I, too, wish to see the elven people treated fairly. But the tables have turned too quickly in favor of the elves, and now, the humans of Denerim threaten to rebel. Ferelden is too weak, _Denerim_ is too weak, to take that blow."

Teagan rubbed his temples, the red velvet of his surcoat glistening in the mid-morning light pouring in from the windows. He was an excellent advisor, an honest man amongst the charlatans and thieves that were often attracted to a life in politics. Alistair had never seen him so concerned, and so the King found himself standing from his chair to join the bann at the center of the study. He grasped Teagan's shoulders, asking, "What must I do?"

"You must write to Bann Tabris," he said, "The scroll I sent you contains the draft of the letter composed by your advisory staff, suggesting that she repay the city of Denerim for the same amount as the gold she has invested in the alienage."

"Send it to her."

"Alistair, you have not even read it."

"Have you?"

Teagan shook his head, "No, I haven't. I… I will send it to Denerim, as you wish. I pray that whatever it says, it will end the strife in the city. I pray that whatever it says, it does not lead to a revolution, whether by the elves or by the humans."

He retrieved the scroll from Alistair's desk, hesitating before he exited the study.

"Lady Cousland is practicing archery in the fields just outside. After you are finished with the politics that await you at your desk, I recommend you pay her a visit. Her attempts at marksmanship are, shall we say, amusing."

As Teagan hoped, the worried lines on Alistair's face softened at the thought.

--

Cada snatched the arrow by its fletching out of the haystack, beaming with triumph as she replaced it back into her quiver. The cerulean sky had just begun to soften into the pinks and oranges of evening, and the Wardens and soldiers at Amaranthine's fortress were retreating back into the drinking halls and residential buildings after a lengthy day of training and construction. It had been a little over a year since the battle against the archdemon in Denerim, and the fortress- thanks to the hard work of the Wardens from all over Thedas- was nearly completed. With each stone laid into the buildings, Cada felt a renewed sense of patriotism, and hope for a nation that would not betray her as it had when Arl Howe reigned.

As she collected the remaining arrows and placed one foot victoriously atop the bale, her hands glued to her waist, Cada declared to her brother behind her, "Haha! You've been bested by your little sister, Fergus! How does it feel?"

"May I remind you," he chuckled as he made his way across the field outside the fortress and gathered his own arrows, "That this is the first and only round all afternoon that you've actually beaten me?"

"Ah, fine, fine, I yield!" she admitted, "Did you _see_ the second shot I made? Utter failure! That had to be the most embarrassing attempt at archery I've ever suffered. Maker preserve me if I have to retrieve _that _arrow. It's probably sticking out of some unfortunate tree out in the woods."

The siblings began to walk across the grass towards the stairs that lead atop the tall barricades situated around the plateau where the fortress stood. Propped against the wall, smirking boyishly, was the flaxen-armored king Alistair. He watched as Cada traipsed across the grass and curtsied at the top of the steps, greeting, "Good afternoon, your Majesty."

"And you, Lady Cousland. From the looks of it, your aim hasn't improved _one_ bit," he said, "Although I suppose that's why we employ rangers and assassins in the Wardens. They are far better marksmen than warriors such as you and I. In fact, I'll remember to leave you to the less refined butchery of darkspawn should they ever attack Ferelden again, and arm you with the largest sword I can locate in the armory."

"Any sword chosen by you, your Highness, I would be honored to carry into combat," she purred. Fergus rolled his eyes as he bowed.

"It was a pleasure to see you, your Majesty," he said, "I hope to see you on the morn."

"And you, Teryn Cousland."

As Fergus sulked away, Alistair surveyed the area to ensure that no one else watched them. Once he had verified that the scene was clear, he swept Cada off her feet and into an alley between two buildings, shedding his pauldrons as he kissed her nose, her lips, and the bottom of her ear. He mewled, "_Why _must you speak so formally to me? Must we be so secretive about our love?"

"Yes!" Cada exclaimed, "There is no thrill in romancing a king if I cannot put on this little masquerade for the rest of the Wardens."

"Oh, I see, you think that even after _months_ of this creeping about and giggling every time we see one another, they don't know," Alistair joked, his hands crawling down her sides where his fingers looped around her belt, "I mean, _I _definitely haven't mentioned it, but I think by now it must be extraordinarily obvious. Did you see the look in your brother's eyes when he stomped off? He is _furious_ that you're frolicking around with the King of Ferelden, isn't he?"

"Frolicking? _Frolicking?!_" Cada shrieked, giggling as Alistair cupped a hand over her mouth.

"Shhh! If we're caught, I will never let you live it down!"

"_Alistair!_" She replied in a muffled tone. He removed his hand from her lips and she whispered, "For Andraste's _sake_, we should just retreat to your quarters to be alone."

"And risk my chatty servants seeing us? Oh, great, they'd tell all of _Thedas_ that I'm wooing someone. Look, Cada, love, we need to keep this quiet for now. My advisors are relentlessly trying to marry me off to an Orlesian bride to… _bridge relations_, as they call it. I have no intentions of marrying who they say. It's just…"

"_You_ are king, Alistair," she uttered, "You may marry as you please."

"I know, I know," he frowned, "I just always try to make people happy. I don't want to disappoint anyone. Not like Cailan did."

"I should think the people would hardly disapprove of marrying the woman you love, Alistair," she murmured, stroking the pale shadow of blonde stubble on his jaw, "There is nothing scandalous about our relationship. I am a daughter of a great teryn, and a Warden who has been trained by the Orlesians. I know something of politics, and even more of battle, which is often the more relevant topic. It is not as if you wish to wed a Tevinter slave, for goodness sake!"

Alistair sighed, combing aside chocolate wisps of hair away from her bronzy, hazel eyes. The sun was falling fast, and the men and women of the fort had no doubt retired for dinner and bed. The air was warm and quiet, and more importantly given Ferelden's typical weather, dry. It was a perfect night, divorced from the bustle of Denerim or the eerie silence of the Wilds. But it was tainted by the very realistic fear that had, for the past handful of months, loomed on the edges of Alistair's mind. The king grazed Cada's cheek with his hand, lamenting, "What I fear, what I believe my advisors fear… is that I won't be able to produce an heir. And if I marry you, I just… the likelihood, the likelihood of ever having a child decreases tremendously. We are both Wardens, and that is part of the cost, of… I- don't know if we will ever be able to-"

"We have both seen what happens to Ferelden when it has no heir," she agreed gently. Alistair's dark russet eyes met hers, wide with sorrow and the stain of apprehension. Cada laced her hands around his waist, saying, "My sadness at having to let you go would be a small price to pay knowing that my country would have an heir, if you should take another woman as a wife."

"Cada-"

"I was not able to arrive to Ferelden in time to fight the archdemon. I feel as if somehow, I am indebted to my country. And there would be no better sacrifice on my part than relinquishing my relationship with you, knowing it would serve the crown and my people," Cada promised. But Alistair shook his head vehemently.

"I know this is probably selfish," he replied, "But I want no other wife in Thedas but _you_."

"Are you proposing marriage to me, Alistair?" she cooed.

"What if I was?"

"I would say _yes_." Cada whispered.

"Well, then, Cada Cousland," Alistair uttered, "Will you marry me?"

She smiled, her ivory teeth glittering against the tanned palette of her skin in the orange light of the evening, "I have already given my answer, _your Highness_."

--

The elven man squealed as the whip cracked against his back for the eighth sequential time. Blood splattered from the fresh wound and coated the bottom of his brunette pony tail as it sprayed and trickled down his sides. He struggled against the thick wooden post he was bound to, weeping and screaming out to the young elf woman wailing for clemency behind a ring of armored guards, presumably his lover or wife. Which, or who, it did not matter; her presence did nothing to soften the ricochet of the barbed whip against the accused man's skin. The crowd of elves gathered in a circle around the condemned man cheered wildly as Albine wiped the blood off the barbs of the whip on her blue linen sleeve.

"I have employed you, housed you, and fed you," she proclaimed, "And yet you repay me with absolute ingratitude."

"I won't work for you! You drive us like slaves! Twelve, fourteen hours a day-"

He bawled as Albine's whip snapped, slicing through wounds that already bled on his back.

"There is _no_ price- not in coin, not in hours, not in lives lost- that can be placed on liberation," Albine declared.

"No, no I won't work any longer, I won't-"

For the tenth and final time, the barbs of the whip grazed him. The elf collapsed to the grass, sobbing and quivering as the guards moved in to cut the rope around his wrists and pry him off the ground. Albine closed her eyes, breathing slowly, as she coiled the whip and replaced it on her belt. She beckoned the terrified woman from the crowd that she figured was the man's love. Wide-eyed with fear, she approached, crying. Albine removed a pouch of gold from her belt and offered it to her. Silently, nervously, the woman accepted it.

"This will afford his stay in the infirmary until he is fit to return to his post at the bridge," Albine lowered her voice ominously, "Ensure he does not rebel again. I will not be so lenient a second time."

"Y-yes, yes, Ladyship," the woman sniveled, "T-th-thank you."

As the throng dispersed and Albine's guards assembled to escort her back to her estate, Zevran emerged from the droves of people scurrying with construction supplies between buildings in the district. As her captain of the guard, clad in a suit of black leather armor with silvery chainmail glistening beneath, a red sash draped in some elegant Antivan fashion around his waist, he looked as dashing as any proper rogue in his position. Albine's cheeks warmed at the sight of him. He was shaking his head, arms crossed casually over his chest as he swaggered towards her, saying, "Another insurgent brutally punished, I take it?"

"By my own hand, lest it not have been so merciful," she replied, asking almost guardedly, "How goes the construction of the academy?"

"As you wish it, my lady," he responded as he took her in his arms, "Quickly, so as not to delay the entry of the first students through its doors. The architect expects it to be completed in the month, though Lady Anora is less optimistic."

"You have spoken to her?"

"She wishes your audience, which is why I came to retrieve you," he said.

"What for?"

"Oh, she'd _certainly_ tell such things to the untrustworthy Antivan son-of-a-whore," he gritted his teeth, "No, she did not say, especially to the likes of me. But I imagine you will find out soon, yes? You are returning to the estate?"

He extended his arm, and Albine looped her elbow through his. As they strode through the district, Zevran could not help but admire it. What was once a prison had become a palace. Denerim's elves were free, and through their dedication and the visionary governance of their new bann, Albine had lovingly crafted a veritable heaven for her people.

Though it was far from finished, lacking orphanages and the academy and hospice that Albine was only now in the process of constructing, Zevran could not deny the beauty of the alienage. The district was a maze of winding streets, of hidden groves amidst the towering buildings of the city, a patchwork of a few merchant stalls and stores and an inn. The elven people rebuilt it with their own hands faster than any other district in the city. Before Denerim's market district even stood on rock foundations and not on rickety, wooden supports, the elves had homes to call their own. Albine negotiated with stone quarries all over Thedas, with the Dalish for wood for construction, and with the king, securing proper wages for her people from the taxes collected throughout Denerim.

It had not been easy. Albine was notorious for driving the elves like slaves. Work days lasted for countless grueling hours, and for men and women too young or weak to build were endlessly transporting materials, tending to children and orphans, writing orders for supplies. Those who did not comply to the hard labor assigned to them were shipped to the homes of Ferelden's nobles to toil away as servants, beaten, or in exceptional cases, killed.

It was a callous policy, and Albine a ruthless bann if not a pitiless woman. But without it, Zevran knew, the elves would never have risen from their squalor. Having suffered under the oppressive thumb of the Crows, he knew how sacred freedom was, and he- like Albine- would give anything to extend the same freedom and equality to their fellow elves.

Despite their efforts, however, the alienage remained a gilded cage. The humans still loathed the elves and were happy that they lived in isolation from them. But the elves were truly free and thrived independently of humans. At last, they had pride, and they had Albine, their tireless defender. Soon, Zevran would have Albine as well. He wanted to marry her, and intended to tell her- whenever the moment presented itself- that he would make do on the promise of her engagement ring to quietly marry her, in secret, away from the lavish pageantry of court. With the alienage nearing completion, they could finally settle down in Denerim, and lead the life of relative peace that they had always envisioned, oceans away from Antiva, and miles and miles away from the Crows.

He hadn't told Albine about the Crows.

They had entered the city and attempted to kill him twice. He murdered the assassins on both occasions, sustaining injuries that he successfully masked from Albine. On one night, he nearly bit his tongue in two with agony as he made love to her despite suffering a shattered wrist. Once she had fallen asleep- naked and sweating - on the sheets, he crept out of bed and bandaged the wound himself, biting grooves in his tongue with his teeth as he stifled a pained moan. After the second wave of assassins broke into their estate on the edge of the district, Zevran nearly broke the news to her. But as they sat down to dinner one night, and he parted his lips to speak on it, there was a part of him that feared she would retaliate against the Crows, and provoke more to come.

Or worse, and more likely, she would cheerfully join their ranks.

It had been three weeks since the last assault transpired, and she was none the wiser. As the captain of her guard, there was no one more appropriate to know about the attacks, and certainly no reason to inspire unnecessary anxiety over the recent incidents in anyone else. So Zevran remained mum, and said nothing to her of the attacks.

As Albine and her party rounded the corner, they were greeted with the yellow stucco surface of the Bann's estate, its white marble pillars carved in organic helixes surrounding the airy atrium. It was by no means expansive, but it reminded Zevran of the homes in Antiva City's wealthiest district that not even Crow masters dreamed of ever owning themselves. Narrow birch trees shaded the trimmed hedges that framed the open doorway that they passed through as they entered the house.

"I am particularly curious as to the nature of the matter Anora wishes to needed my attention," Albine mused almost to herself as she sauntered through the hallway beneath the vaulted, white carved ceilings, scoffing, "We speak in the evenings, after dinner. Whatever the cause, it must be great for her to have sent you."

Zevran gulped, swallowing his fear. He prayed it wasn't the recent assaults by the Crows. He hoped that no one else had found out. But why would Anora be so hasty to send for Albine otherwise? He could not know. As Albine strolled into the study where Anora sat waiting with a folded letter in her lap, the assassin lingered outside, remaining until his Ladyship was done, until he knew he would have to break it to her that the Crows had descended upon Denerim at last.

--

Cada crept past the door and into her lodgings as silently as possible, awaiting the click of the handle in its lock before she sighed in relief that she had made the long trek from Alistair's quarters on the other side of the fortress without being detected back to her room. A grand, glorious, and nefarious part of her felt as gleeful as a rogue after a successful robbery, so criminal was her stay – and escape – from the King's bedchamber. The rush that accompanied the realization that soon they would be married, and she would become queen- _queen!- _had not yet faded as she shrilly squeaked with delight and removed her armor as she made her way to the chair in the corner.

Before she collapsed into it in a fit of girlish glee, Cada saw Clarene slouched in it.

"Back so soon?" She muttered. Cada's cheeks flushed.

"I did not expect to be so long visiting- my, _brother_," she stammered.

"You are a fool to have pursued him this far, though I cannot deny that your secretiveness is remarkably tactful," Clarene jeered, "If I were bedding the king, _I_ surely would not desire my fellow Wardens to think I was attempting to enter the King's favored graces."

"You treat me like a whore," Cada snarled, but Clarene rose from the chair and pointed at the other Warden accusingly.

"You think I don't look out for you?" she snapped, "How many guards do you think I've told to turn the other cheek while you sneak to Alistair's chambers? I have, many times. I am still your superior, and it is still my duty to protect you, even from the interests of the other Grey Wardens. Lying with the king is dangerous."

"He proposed to me tonight," Cada murmured meekly in reply. Clarene's lips froze shut, her eyes wide with disbelief as the momentary shock wore off. She again sunk into the chair, rubbing her brow as she collected her thoughts, finally running a weary hand through her burnished crimson hair before she responded.

"Cada, in the past months I have never attempted to intervene in your relationship with Alistair. You are the daughter of a teryn who bravely battled alongside King Maric, and I know you to be a worthy bride both in blood and in character for a king of Ferelden. And that is why I fear for you. That is why, though I will do anything to protect your relationship, I wholly disagree with it," Clarene explained. Baffled, Cada dropped her belt and scabbard on the table before the fireplace, and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her mentor.

"If you think I would make a fine queen, I see not why you disapprove of me marrying Alistair," Cada answered. Clarene frowned.

"If you marry Alistair and become his queen, you stand to inherit a kingdom whose monarchy is fragile and whose capital city is wrecked. Ferelden lacks the trade connections of Antiva and the enormous wealth of Orlais. It is headed by a man who was trained to become a templar, for Andraste's sake, not a king. You may be in love, but you cannot be blind to the very likely possibility of rebellion or invasion of the country in so weak a state," Clarene said, "If such insurrection did occur, your life would be amongst the first to be taken."

Cada promised, "I am willing to risk the sacrifice for him."

"Can you blame me if I am not so eager for the possibility? You life was already threatened by Arl Howe. Your family was murdered, and you nearly with them. _Cada_, I swore to the Wardens and to your family that I would protect you. And now, you leap into marriage with the King of Ferelden, who sits on a shambling throne overlooking a fractured kingdom. Love may not see practically, but _I _do. And I see the very real possibility that marriage to the king will lead to ruin."

"But it will also lead to happiness, a thing few noble women ever know in marriage," Cada countered. Clarene lowered her voice.

"Yes, there can be happiness. And I know how you can have it," the Orlesian rose from her chair again, leafing through the books on the shelf until she found a volume of some interest that she vaguely flipped through as she formulated the words in her head and arranged them in a response. She did not want to tell Cada, but she knew that there was a way to circumvent the danger of rebellion. Clarene feared that it was more treacherous than simply allowing Cada to marry Alistair and risk being ousted or killed in office. Yet Cada would not budge, and Clarene would not make her. Cada loved Alistair. And so Clarene, far from the diplomatic intrigues of her home courts in Orlais, found herself once again entangled by politics. She began, "I told you whenever we arrived in Ferelden that there was an elf, named Albine."

"Well, certainly. Everyone knows who Albine is. She slayed the archdemon. She's a legend. And I don't see how she has anything to do with Alistair and I."

"You, perhaps not. But Alistair? Now there's a point of interest. Do you think Alistair rules of his own accord? No. He does not. He may be quick to learn politics, but it is Albine who rules the nation. Is it not curious that over a year after Denerim was sieged by darkspawn that the elven alienage is now the most exquisite and completed district in the city? How do you think Albine managed to do so much for the elves, while the rest of Denerim remains in relative squalor?"

Clarene tossed the book aside. It was a useless distraction. Petting flat the green damask of her surcoat anxiously, she continued, "Aside from Alistair's project here in Amaranthine rebuilding the Wardens, the coffers have paid for little for the benefit of the people of Ferelden. Albine has successfully redirected much of the treasury to use in the alienage. Gold that could be invested in paying diplomats to ease tensions with Orlais, Rivain and Antiva, gold that can be used to fortify our borders and protect against future rebellion, is used for the elves. So if you wish to remain queen without having to live in constant fear of the threat of revolution or invasion, where must you turn to source the money needed to secure Ferelden? Albine."

"But she saved Ferelden, and is well respected, especially amongst her own people. It is common knowledge even amongst the Wardens living here. No one will turn against her, least of all Alistair. He swears she placed him on the throne, and ousted Anora. I couldn't possibly remove her from her station," Cada insisted, "She is a hero."

"And that spares her scrutiny? Cada, if you do not wish to be deposed from your throne weeks within being coronated, you will have to appease the people of Ferelden immediately. They tire of destitution. You do not think the common human inhabiting Denerim does not gaze upon the alienage and wonder why they live still in hovels, over a year after the defeat of the archdemon? Alistair has traveled too frequently between Amaranthine and Denerim for the people to rally against him successfully, but the rebellion is brewing, and I do not think our king will intervene. That, _you _must do."

"Then you think it can be done?" Cada murmured. Clarene shrugged.

"Theoretically speaking, yes."

"I'm hardly the most deceptive woman in the world."

"Oh? With little help from me, you managed to keep your romance with Alistair a secret."

Cada smiled slowly, "And my father wondered why I hated politics growing up..."

--

Albine held the letter limply in her lap, her eyes glazed over as she stared into the crumpled ashes of the fireplace. Anora tugged at her dress, crossing her legs irritably as she said, "I warned you that this construction was moving too fast."

"Do not chastise me."

"I'm _not_ chastising you!" Anora exasperatedly snapped, "I merely informing you of your exceptional foolishness in a time of diplomatic disaster throughout Ferelden. I _knew_ that this would happen, and that at some point in the future – that point being now, my knife-eared friend – _you_ would receive a letter of this exact time directly from the desk of the king! And was I not absolutely correct?"

"It was not Alistair who wrote this."

"No! No, it was not. He is far too much of a fool enchanted by the Wardens to have ever considered the security of Ferelden, just as Cailan was. This was likely penned by his advisors, and Alistair merely and blindly stamped the royal seal on the envelope and sent it away. Isn't that how he has chosen to run his kingdom? Truly, I had thought him so enamored with your legendary status amongst our people that he would pluck out his ribcage if you so commanded it. Now he sends this, at the behest of the imbeciles that advise him? The _point_, elf, is that you have drained the coffers to build this district, and now Alistair wants those funds repaid in full so that he may repair the other districts and prevent revolt amongst the humans."

"That will take years, as you are aware," Albine mouthed. Anora snarled.

"I _know!_" She hissed, "You do not think I see how much gold we have invested into the alienage?! Do you think I wish to see you exiled if you are unable to repay him?! Surely he will send me with you, to rid himself of the possibility that someone sensible and intelligent lives that could actually have a claim on the throne of Ferelden."

"Are you finished?" Albine whispered.

"Yes, _quite_. Any more words that slip my lips will be gratuitous, and Maker know neither of us needs that," Anora hissed, "Thank you for your audience, ladyship. May it not be the last before Alistair has the head lopped from your shoulders. Just like he did my father."

The former queen felt tears suddenly spring in her eyes. She furiously batted them away with her sleeve, managing, "Albine, you have granted me an opportunity where no one else ever would have. In a world ruled by arranged marriages and unhappy wives, you have made me a free woman in an alienage that not so long ago knew nothing but squalor. You rescued me from imprisonment. I will not see anything happen to you, least of all under an incapable king."

Albine remained wordless. Anora figured that she would not vocally respond to such a genuine emotional plea, but the elf's expression softened, and Lady Mac Tir felt the poignancy of her point wash over her. Albine dismissed her, and she curtsied as a noblewoman would, leaving the elf to the lonely quiet of the study.

Zevran watched Anora hastily glide out of the room, and poked his head around the doorframe to see Albine seated alone in the study. Having heard all of what the women spoke of, and relieved it had nothing to do with the recent attacks by the Crow agents, he drifted in and offhandedly propped his back against the shelves. He asked, "I presume all went well?"

"I cannot say it did, no," she yielded, "The… alienage is in a precarious position. The district is required to repay the reconstruction costs to the city of Denerim for its other districts, lest I be exiled from Ferelden."

"And being exiled to, oh, _Antiva_ would be a bad thing?" he chuckled. Seeing that his laugh left Albine just as dejected as before, her lips sinking into an even more hopeless frown, he knelt beside her chair and laced his fingers around hers. He whispered, "My faith in you has always been great. I would advise you on how best to go about generating this money, but I am not your councilor, I am your husband."

Albine's minty eyes met his immediately, as she protested, "But we're not-"

"Ah, well, we shall have to remedy that, yes?" He murmured, "What if I suggested we be married tonight, in secret?"

"I would ask you how inebriated you were whenever you concocted this plan," Albine huffed.

"Not inebriated, inspired. You see, it is rumored that Alistair has proposed to a young noblewoman from Highever. We shall have to beat him to the altar, my dear, before he has a chance to be focused on marrying off all of his nobles in a similar fashion," he said. Albine stroked his chin, running a finger down his bottom lip as she shook her head.

"That is no solid reason to marry," she replied.

"No," he murmured, "But loving you as much as I do is."

"Zevran…"

"You aren't going to protest, are you?"

She tumbled out of the chair, sprawling across the carpet alongside him and embracing him in her arms, not parting her lips to speak another word.

--

"Zevran, this is absolutely _ludicrous_," she chirped as he led her through the corridors of the estate towards the courtyard, "We- we can't just _leave_ the alienage and run away like-"

He spun Albine around a corner, pinning her against the wall with a kiss.

"Like _that_?"

"Yes, yes precisely in that… _fashion,_" she brushed her taupe skirt flat, hissing as his hand tugged at the laces of her bodice, "This is _hardly _the appropriate time! We should be fleeing like criminals. Oh, for Andraste's sake-"

She grabbed his wrist and bolted down the hall with the Antivan in tow. He was snickering like the complete scoundrel Albine knew he was beneath the polished exterior of the elven bann's consort. _Consort_. Her head swooned to think that the title would soon be changed to _husband_, if they made it out of the elven alienage alive and the guards did not intercede. Or should they have been even far less fortunate, if Albine's father Cyrion uncovered their plot.

"Why do I feel like a small boy escaping the wrath of some shopkeeper he stole candies from?" Zevran mused. Albine crept across the passageway and rattled the locked door on the opposite side. She flattened her back against the stained glass window, tense as a palace guard floated past without detecting her. She released a hefty sigh of relief as he reeled down another corridor.

"Why do _I _feel like a proper chantry wedding in Denerim would have been preferable to this subterfuge?"

"Because we are assassins?" Zevran grinned.

"If the guards find us-"

"Alistair will know if it, which makes our escape all the more imperative. He would force us to marry in a ceremony larger than Morrigan's ego, in front of all of Ferelden and his slew of human and noble sorts. _Neither_ of us wants that," he reminded her, "May I remind you that the last time you, weddings and human nobles mixed, it ended badly."

"The last time you and _I _mixed it ended badly," Albine rejoined as she procured her picks from her belt and tinkered with the lock on the door. Zevran knelt next to her, gazing up in the pale evening light at her swan-white face. The curve of her narrow ivory jaw, her delicate nose, the scrutinizing sweep of her brow. Or was it the icy, mint green of her eyes that coaxed his cheeks to flush? As she twisted the knob open to the free world outside, Albine faced him. She whispered, "Are you ready?"

"Would I _really_ back out after shelling out all of that hard-earned gold on such an extravagant ring?" He smirked, gazing outside on the alienage from the door. Even from the view on the side entry that they were departing from, it was resplendent. The night has freshly fallen on the reconstructed buildings. Stone pillars rose like white beacons from the ground around the wooden and stucco homes swathed in ivy vines and climbing roses.

He stepped through the door, chasing her down the alley and towards the chantry.

But midway down the path, a thunderous force collided with his chest, and he reeled backwards, landing in dirt. Scrambling to his knees, he heard the clamor of Albine's heeled boots against the ground, and caught the sound of muffled whines. The Crows had arrived. And they had descended first upon Albine ahead of him.

Zevran leaped headlong into battle.

He scrambled to his feet and dashed down the alley, leaving his assailant in his wake. Removing two knives from his belt he rounded the corner and entered the wider corridor at the end of the alley leading to Denerim's chauntry in the market district. He skidded to a halt, thrashing his head side to side as he searched for Albine.

"Here," she uttered. Zevran glanced to his right, and saw her kneeling over the two assassins, both now dead, as she cleaned her dagger on the embroidered kerchief she procured from her pocket. Before Zevran set a foot in her direction, he was seized from behind by the last assassin. As Zevran grappled for freedom, the enemy flung his knife wildly and grazed the Antivan's neck. Albine soared into combat, standing her ground with a snarl on her carmine lips and her freshly cleaned blades extended out towards him.

"Relinquish him," she ordered. The assailant held the flat side of his knife against Zevran's ear.

"I will cut off the point of his ear if you draw any nearer," the assailant sneered, his grayish shadows of facial hair visible beneath the otherwise concealing hood, saying, "Drop your weapons. It is I who is in the position to barter with you, not the other way around. After all, I see I have something of value to you."

"Have I taught you nothing, love? Kill him!" Zevran exclaimed to Albine. As the assassin wrenched his arm around Zevran's neck in retaliation for the comment, Albine remained frozenly still.

"If you are willing to barter, it is evident that you are not above diplomacy," she observed. The attacker cocked his hooded head with interest, begging her to continue, "I would be willing to speak with you on more civil terms if you agree to return quietly to my estate."

"Whoever said I was sent to talk?"

"Had you been sent to kill, as you infer, you would like any proper assassin have already completed your mission."

The assassin eyed her warily, but released Zevran. As the Antivan rubbed his throat from the lock that the other assassin had on his throat and teetered back towards Albine, he removed his hood. A spray of coffee-brown hair and grayish stubble on his jaw framed the central color of his face, found in two pale blue-colored eyes situated like aquamarines alongside his crooked nose. He bowed, refusing to remove his eyes from Albine's, announcing, "I am Dalton Edgworth, sent by Master Ignacio of the Antivan Crows. I will tell no more until we are safely inside."

Albine narrowed her eyes, pausing, but eventually nodded in agreement as she led him back to her estate silently. Zevran trailed behind them, a dagger drawn, in case the assassin's motives were not as diplomatic as they seemed.

--

Author's Notes

Now that I've finished my month-long independent research essay at college, I hope to expedite the time it takes to write and post each new chapter of this story. Speaking of chapters, I hope you enjoyed this one, and thank you for your kind reviews and readership. I am very blessed to have such a gracious audience. As always, send me suggestions at will!

With love,

Julia

_apeacockpersian_


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